TIMON.
If I hope well, I'll never see thee more.

ALCIBIADES.
I never did thee harm.

TIMON.
Yes, thou spok'st well of me.

ALCIBIADES.
Call'st thou that harm?

TIMON.
Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take
Thy beagles with thee.

ALCIBIADES.
We but offend him. Strike!

[Drum beats. Exeunt all but TIMON.]

TIMON.
That nature, being sick of man's unkindness,
Should yet be hungry! Common mother, thou,

[Digging.]

Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,
Teems, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle,